Demons
by paperstorm
Summary: Part of my Deleted Scenes series. The tag for Heaven and Hell, 4x10. Wincest.


**Contains dialogue from the episode Heaven and Hell, it belongs to Eric Kripke and Trevor Sands.**

**Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page. They will make more sense if read in order. :)**

**ps - I usually proofread these meticulously but at the moment I am exhausted, so if you find any typos feel free to point them out. **

* * *

Sam hops up onto the hood of the Impala, propping his feet up on the bumper. The car bounces a little under his weight, and Dean glares at him half-heartedly and says, "Easy, Jolly Green."

Sam grins. "You know, the amount of love you have for this thing is starting to border on creepy."

Dean walks around from where he'd been rummaging through the back seat, and hands Sam a beer. "Okay, first of all, _this thing_? Is the only real home either of us have ever had. And second, she's a she, not an it. You could show a little respect."

Sam just chuckles. "The offer to give you some time alone with her is always on the table."

"You're just, you're _so_ funny, do you know that?" Dean gripes with an eyeroll, and then he turns around and leans against the side of the car. "Can't believe we made it out of there."

"Again," Sam agrees. Dean holds out his bottle and Sam clinks his against it.

There are a few moments of silence, and then Dean says, "I know you heard him."

"Who?" Sam's pretty sure he knows, but he wants Dean to say it, just in case he's wrong.

"Alastair. What he said, about how I had promise."

"I heard him," Sam confirms.

"You're not curious?"

Sam exhales. "Dean, I'm damn curious but … you're not talking about Hell and I'm not pushing."

Sam watches his brother's back, and Dean just takes a sip of his beer so Sam does the same.

"It wasn't four months, you know," Dean says eventually.

Sam looks up and frowns. "What?"

"It was four months up here, but down there … I don't know. Time is different. It was more like forty years."

Something sharp and painful clenches in Sam's chest. For a moment, his brain doesn't know how to process that. And then it's the worst thing he's ever heard. "Oh my God," he breathes.

"They, uh, they sliced, and carved … and tore at me in ways that you … until there was nothing left."

The pain in Dean's voice, the way it wavers as he tries so hard to keep it steady, it all rips at Sam's heart like claws. This is what he wanted, he _wanted_ Dean to talk about Hell, but now that he is, Sam wishes he weren't. Selfishly, he doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to have to think about what Dean went through, what those black-eyed bastards did to his brother. Dean is perfect, beautiful. He's Sam's everything, he has been since the moment Sam met him. The thought of him in such agony is more than Sam can take.

"And then suddenly I would be whole again, like magic," Dean continues heavily. "Just so they could start in all over. And Alastair, at the end of every day … every one … he would come over and he would make me an offer to take me off the rack if I put souls on. If I started the torture. And every day I told him to stick it where the sun shines. For thirty years I told him. But then I couldn't do it anymore, Sammy. I couldn't."

Dean's voice breaks, and Sam can hear the tears in his eyes even if he can't see them. Sam feels hot and cold at the same time, and like he might throw up. He wants to say something, but there aren't words.

"And I got off that rack, God help me I got right off it. And I started ripping them apart. I lost count of how many souls. The things that I did to them …"

"Dean," Sam starts quietly. He can't stay silent anymore even though he doesn't have the first clue what he's supposed to say. "Dean, look, you held out for thirty years. That's longer than anyone would've."

Dean shakes his head and sniffs, inhaling shakily. "How I feel, this … inside me … I wish I couldn't feel anything, Sammy. I wish I couldn't feel a damn thing."

It's a long time before Sam has any idea what to say. He can't wrap his brain around any of it. Hell just seems like an abstract; a nightmare. Not something that actually exists, not a real place where his brother spent four decades. Sam's Hell was being here without Dean, but it was nothing compared to what Dean went through. Sam just can't make it all feel real in his head. It's too big, too removed from any reality Sam's ever known. It all still sounds like a story. Dean sits there on the car and cries, Sam hears the soft catches on his breath and sees his shoulders shaking, and Sam has no idea what to say, what to do, what to _feel_. There are words that should be coming out of his mouth right now, something – _anything_ – to make Dean feel better, but Sam doesn't know what they are. Or if they even exist at all.

Eventually, he gives up on trying to say anything. He's wracking his brain and coming up empty, so he stops trying. He gets up off the Impala's hood, and walks slowly over until he's standing in front of his brother.

"Don't," Dean grits out before Sam has even done anything.

"Dean," he says softly.

"I said don't!" Dean shouts, roughly shoving Sam. Sam stagers backwards and Dean stalks a few steps away.

Sam stares at his back, burning with the need to pull Dean into his arms but aware that Dean wouldn't let him. The ache in his chest is too powerful, though. He can't leave this alone. He walks closer to Dean again, reaching out and tentatively putting a hand on Dean's shoulder. He doesn't care if he gets punched for his trouble.

"Sam," Dean mumbles weakly.

"You gotta let me in," Sam says. It sounds so stupid, so small compared to what Dean's been through, but it's what comes out of Sam's mouth. He moves in just a little closer, letting his other hand settle on Dean's hip. "You can't get through this on your own."

"There's nothing to get through!" Dean cries, moving away from Sam again. He turns around with a wild look in his eyes, tears-tracks painting shiny lines down his cheeks. "This is not a bad day, okay? It's not a bullet wound or a burn that you can put a bandage and some Polysporin on and in a week it'll be healed. This is what happened to me, this is my life. The things they did to me down there, and the things I did to the others when I got off, that's something that won't ever go away. Ever."

"Yeah, I know that, but – "

"But what?" Dean cuts in. "You can't make this better! Don't you get that? It doesn't _matter_, Sam! It doesn't matter what you say, it doesn't matter what you do. You could take me back to a motel and tell me a bunch of stupid things about love or family and you could put me in a bed and hold me until the sun comes up, and when the sun does come up? Everything will be exactly the same!"

"Well what else am I supposed to do?" Sam says back, his voice rising as he gets upset. "Yeah, I know I can't just snap my fingers and make this all go away, but you can't drop a bomb on me like that and then just expect me to pretend you didn't!"

"I'm not expecting you to pretend anything! I just don't want you thinking an evening of hugs and painting each other's fucking toes is gonna help anything! You _can't_ help me, Sam!"

"So I'm not even allowed to try? You want me to just stand back and watch this destroy you and not do anything about it? We have to deal with this, Dean! Something horrible happened to you, and if you go on trying to act like it didn't? It will break you."

Dean turns away from him again, and Sam blinks against the sting of tears in his own eyes. He has _no_ idea what he's supposed to do. None. Dean's right; there isn't anything Sam could do to make this better. Not this time. Dean is broken in ways Sam can't fix. And it terrifies him.

"Just …" Sam sighs helplessly. "Let's just get a room okay?"

Dean's back tenses and Sam can tell he's glaring without being able to see his eyes.

"Dean, please. You don't have to talk, alright? Let's just get off the road."

For a moment, Sam thinks Dean's going to argue with him. But instead, Dean hurls his half-full beer bottle at a tree twenty feet in front of him, watches as it shatters and the pale yellow liquid explodes, and then walks almost calmly back to the driver's side of the Impala and gets in. Sam stands there for a moment, his feet glued to the cement because he has _no_ idea what to do next. It's such a mess. He wants Dean to tell him more, but at the same time he doesn't. He wants to wrap himself around Dean and hold him until the pain goes away, but he can't and it won't. He wants to scream, cry, find Alastair and tear him to pieces for hurting his brother. He wants to go back in time and stop Dean from making the deal in the first place. Sam hates his own soft heart. If he'd killed Jake when he had the chance, none of this would've happened. Dean is as shattered as the beer bottle, and it's Sam's fault.

Eventually he forces himself to get back into the car too, and Dean hits the gas and peels away before Sam's finished closing the door. He speeds like the devil is on their ass, finding them a motel a few miles away in half the time it would take someone else. It's a complete dump, but that's not important. It's even fitting – everything else in their lives is in shambles, it makes sense that their lodgings would be too. Dean is predictably silent as they unload their bags and make themselves at home in their temporary residence, and Sam still doesn't know what to say. He feels completely handcuffed. Like there are words that could help but Sam can't find them. Dean won't look at Sam either, and that hurts more than Sam wishes it did.

Sam sits on the end of one of the beds while Dean putters around him, walking in and out of the bathroom for no reason and rummaging through his bag but not taking anything out. Sam knows this particular dance. Sometimes when Dean doesn't want to think about something, he just moves. Like if he keeps in constant motion his brain will forget. But there's no forgetting what he went through. Dean is a master of pushing emotions away but Sam knows even he won't be able to do that this time.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he hears himself say after a while.

"No," Dean answers shortly.

"Dean," Sam protests softly, and then finally Dean looks at him. He looks angry, although Sam knows he isn't.

"I don't know what you want me to say. I'm not gonna have a sharing and caring session with you, Sammy. I'm not gonna burden you with my problems."

Sam swears under his breath. "You know, I would've thought that all we've been through together the last few years had proven to you that you're not a burden to me. Dean, you're my big brother. That means something, you're the one who's always telling me that. I'm not saying I have a magic wand, that I can just fix all this, because I can't. But I can _help_. And I want to."

For a moment, Dean just looks at him. His forehead twisted into a frown and his lips turned down. Then he walks the few feet to the other bed and sits down on it, mirroring Sam's slumped posture with his elbows on his knees. He clears his throat before he speaks, and then his words are measured and so quiet Sam has to strain to hear them. "A few months after Mom died, right before Dad started hunting, he sits me down on my bed and puts you in my arms. You were … small, you were so small. And he tells me that our lives are going to be different now. That we're going to be moving around a lot, and that he was going to do things sometimes, things that are dangerous. He tells me that sometimes I'll be in danger too, and you."

He glances briefly over at Sam, and Sam clenches his jaw in an effort to keep the emotion from taking over. It always makes him unhappy to think about how much Dean's sacrificed for him.

"'Look at Sammy,' he says," Dean continues heavily. "'Look into your baby brother's eyes and promise me that you will always protect him. That you'll never let anything hurt him. Promise me, Dean. Promise me, and promise Sam.'"

"He shouldn't've done that," Sam whispers. "That wasn't fair."

"I was five years old," Dean says, as if Sam hadn't spoken. "I promised Dad because he told me to, but I didn't really understand what he meant. But now I do."

Sam draws in a shaky breath and looks away, closing his eyes against an unexpected flush of sadness.

"'Watch out for Sammy,'" Dean reiterates quietly. "Sometimes it was the only thing he'd say to me all day. It didn't matter that I was just a kid. It didn't matter that what I probably needed most was for someone to look out for _me_. That wasn't my life. My job, shit, my only purpose for living, was to keep you safe."

"Is that what you think you're doing by not letting me help you?" Sam asks.

Dean doesn't answer. He stares at the floor and drags the back of his hand over his mouth.

"Don't you think I know how many times I would've been dead already if you hadn't been there looking out for me?" Sam's voice wavers with how much he needs to make Dean understand. "I don't care if you want to protect me from the bad things in the world. I _love_ that you do that. But that isn't what you're doing here, Dean. You're trying to protect me from _you_, and that's – "

"Sam – "

"No, let me finish," Sam insists. "I don't want to be protected from you. I just want you. All of you. Look, I – if you don't want to talk about what happened to you, I get it, okay? I do. But please, I just need you to stop shutting me out. Please."

"I can't," Dean says. He sounds truly sorry about it. "It hurts too much."

Sam nods and blinks against the sting of tears. He doesn't know where they're supposed to go from here. How they even begin to carry on. He doesn't know if there's another person on the planet who's been in this situation before. He doesn't know who to ask, where to turn with all the questions that burn in his brain. Pretending nothing was wrong didn't work; it never does. Dean was crumbling, trying to keep it all inside. But if he won't talk about it, Sam doesn't know how to help. After a few minutes he does the only thing he can think of. He gets up and he walks over to his brother, dropping down to his knees in front of him and pushing himself in between Dean's legs. He reaches up and cups Dean's face in his hands, pulling him down for a gentle kiss. Dean doesn't fight him, but he doesn't really kiss back either, and Sam isn't sure which one would've hurt more.

"Please," he whispers against Dean's lips. "I know it's hard. I know it hurts. But Dean, you can't keep going like this. And I can't either."

"You don't wanna know what it was like," Dean mumbles. He wraps his hands around Sam's forearms, though, sliding them down and then leaving them on Sam's biceps, so that's something.

"You're right, I don't. I can't even imagine, and I don't want to. But like it or not, this is something that happened to you. It isn't going to go away. We have to deal with it."

"It just … it was torture, Sam. The details don't matter. I kept waiting to get used to it, you know? When it's all you know, and it's day after day for so long, you think eventually it'll just become your reality and it won't hurt so much. But it never did."

Sam nods and swallows thickly. His throat clicks loudly in the stilted silence. "M'so sorry."

Dean shakes his head. "It was almost worse once it stopped. I couldn't … I know it makes me a coward. I just couldn't keep going. I couldn't keep saying no when he was offering to make it stop."

Sam sits back on his heels so he can see Dean's face, but Dean won't look at him. There are tears in his eyes again, and it cuts deep into Sam to see Dean like this when he's usually so strong. "You need to lighten up on yourself. What you did – I mean, you held out for a really, really long time. Nobody would blame you for breaking."

Dean snorts derisively. "Yeah. Try telling that to the people I …"

"As if they wouldn't have done the same thing if they had the chance? As if anyone wouldn't?"

"My whole life, my job's been about helping people. We've been pretty deep in the shit so many times, and we always keep pushing through because the people we save are more important than we are. I'm supposed to save people, not rip them to shreds to save my own ass." He stands up and walks a few steps away, probably to hide his tears from Sam. "I'm no better than a demon now."

"That isn't true," Sam says softly.

"Yeah. It is."

"Dean, come on, no it isn't." Sam stands up too, wishing Dean would look at him. "Do you think Alastair or Yellow-Eyes or _any_ of them do what you're doing right now? Do you think they run around slitting throats and then sit and cry about it after? The fact that you're upset about what you did is what makes you human."

Dean doesn't answer. He moves again, this time to the dresser, and he half-sits on it, crossing his arms and staring down at the floor. The burning inside Sam to fix this, to make Dean feel better, is miles beyond desperate. And it's all made worse by the fact that he probably _can't_ make Dean feel better.

"You didn't do anything to them that wouldn't have been done anyway without you," Sam points out.

Dean glares at him briefly. "What, so that means they deserved it?"

"No, of course not, that's not what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?"

"That none of this was your fault!" Sam says, bordering on frantic. If there's one thing Dean does better than anyone else, it's self-loathing, and Sam has to make him see that he deserves forgiveness. "They were in Hell, Dean, and you didn't put them there. What you did – if you hadn't, someone else would've."

"Right. So I should just chalk this all up to _what happens in Vegas_ and forget about it? I can't do that, Sam."

"I'm not telling you to forget about it. I'm telling you to get some perspective! What you did down there is not who you are. I know who you are. You would never hurt an innocent person unless you absolutely had to."

"Well apparently you don't know me as well as you thought you did, because I hurt a lot of people down there. And there isn't a damn thing they could have done in their lives to deserve what I did to them."

"There isn't a damn thing you did in your life to deserve it either. Why can't you see that you were in the exact same boat as those people? Why do their souls matter more than yours?"

"What does that mean?"

"It means that you didn't deserve to go to Hell either. So maybe you did what you had to down there. And you know what? If getting off the rack is what kept you from becoming a demon, then I'm happy you did it."

"You don't mean that."

"Yeah, I do. If they'd turned you into a demon then you would never have been able to come back to me. You're wrecked and twisted and I can feel how much you hate yourself right now, but at least you're here! The rest we can work out."

"How?" Dean demands, finally looking up right into Sam's eyes. The tears have mostly dried, but somehow the sadness is worse. "I'm damaged, Sam. And there's no fixing me this time. Not after what I've done."

"And why do we have to fix you? Why can't you just accept that I love you the way you are?"

"Because you shouldn't!" Dean yells.

"Yeah, well I do!" Sam returns. "So tough!"

"Well just … don't!" Dean cries, throwing his hands up in frustration. "You really want me after all this? I'm toxic, I'm like a freakin' virus! It's bad enough that I have to spend the rest of my life with all those memories, I'm not gonna fuck you up too!"

"Dean, you're a hunter! We're all messed up! Think about Dad, or Bobby, or Gordon. Shit, think about every damn hunter we've ever met! Would you call a single one of them well-adjusted? We've all got a dark past and a couple of screws loose, that's why we're hunters!"

Dean growls in frustration and turns away again, but Sam barrels on.

"You're hurting, and things are really bad right now, and I get it, Dean – "

"No you don't!" Dean spits.

"Well then why don't you tell me?"

"Because you wouldn't understand!"

Sam stares at him for a moment, and then he quietly says, "That's a giant load of crap and you know it. If there's anyone in the world who'd understand it's me, and you know that too."

"I just … it's like there's this thing inside my chest that's eating me from the inside," Dean chews out. "I've got all this anger and I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it."

"You're supposed to use it! That's what makes you good at what you do!" Sam takes a tentative step closer, but then changes his mind. He wants Dean in his arms so badly right now it physically hurts, but Dean's actually talking, and Sam doesn't want to break the spell.

"Yeah, well, maybe I wish I wasn't so good at it."

"I don't believe for a second that you really mean that."

"I do mean it. If I wasn't so damn good at wasting demons and spirits, then maybe …" Dean trails off, but Sam knows what he meant. Alastair saying he had promise are words that will probably haunt Dean for the rest of his life. Sam's making it his personal life-mission to track the demon down and string him up with his own intestines.

"Maybe what?" Sam asks softly, still wanting Dean to say it out loud but unsurprised when Dean doesn't.

He sits back down on the bed, and the room is cloaked in silence for a while. Sam is heartbroken over what happened to Dean, it makes him sick to even think about it, and it's all so much worse because he can't help.

"You don't have to say anything else if you don't want to," Sam says finally.

Dean shrugs. "There isn't anything else to say. I don't know how to keep going anymore, Sammy. I don't know how to move on from this."

Sam nods, and tears prickle at the corners of his eyes because Dean's right. This is too much, this has a good chance of being the thing that finally does them in. A person can only handle so much. Sam hates every cell in his body. This is all his fault. It's the only thought Sam can concentrate clearly on. Everything that happened to Dean is because of him.

"You should leave," Dean barely whispers. "It's over for me, but you still have a shot at a happy life. You still have good inside you. You should just go before I ruin you too."

The words hit Sam like a punch. His stomach clenches and his eyes slam closed, the weight of what Dean said knocking him flat. For a second Sam just sits there and tries not to break down, and then he gets up and goes over to Dean. He doesn't care what Dean wants anymore. Sam pulls his brother into his arms, and Dean struggles but Sam's stronger and he wraps Dean up and holds him tightly.

"Never," he says, his voice raspy. "I don't give a damn what you've done. I love you and I'm not leaving you, not ever again. There's no way my life could ever be happy if you aren't in it."

Dean tries again to remove himself from Sam's arms but Sam squeezes tighter and doesn't let him, and then Dean just falls apart. He dissolves into tears again, sobs that shake his whole body, pressing his face into Sam's neck and grabbing handfuls of the back of Sam's shirt. He cries and Sam lets him; just hugs him and doesn't let go.

"There is no happy ending for me, Sammy," Dean chokes out.

"Shh." Sam rubs his hand up and down Dean's back, failing completely at keeping tears out of his own eyes. "Then let me be your happy ending. You don't even know how perfect you are to me. I love you, Dean. So much. "

"Why?"

Sam pulls back so he can see Dean's face, but Dean drops his gaze so Sam leans forward to press their foreheads together. "Please tell me you don't really need to ask that question."

"I just … " Dean lets his hands drop helplessly. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Nothing." Sam slides his fingers through the tears on Dean's cheek. "Just this."

Dean trembles as he inhales, putting his hands back on Sam's hips and then sliding one around and pushing it up under Sam's shirt. He pets at the skin there, and Sam takes a chance and tilts his chin up to brush his lips against Dean's.

"Please don't go," Dean whispers.

Sam frowns. "What?"

"I didn't mean it."

"I know you didn't," Sam murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? I promise."

Dean nods, and Sam hopes to God he believes it. Sometimes Dean gets so wrapped up in his own fierce need for Sam that he forgets that Sam needs him too. Sam's not sure if it ever goes as far as forgetting that Sam loves him back, but he wouldn't be surprised. He knows that why Dean made the deal in the first place – because the thought of carrying on without Sam wasn't something he could even fathom.

"C'mon," he says, reluctantly letting go of his brother so he can take his hand instead. He leads Dean over to one of the beds, and it's a testament to how completely destroyed Dean is right now that he doesn't even fight it. He lets Sam lay him down on the mattress, and then Sam crawls in after him and pulls Dean back into his arms. He gets them settled, Dean half on top of him with his head resting on Sam's chest. Tears soak through Sam's shirt and run down his own face, and he rubs Dean's back again as they lie in a pile of the broken pieces they've been reduced to.

"It wasn't just physical torture," Dean says eventually, and another wave of nausea rolls through Sam. "There was psychological stuff too. Sometimes they made me see you die. A thousand times, in a thousand different ways. Every time you would scream at me to help you, but I couldn't move. My feet – it was like they were cemented to the ground. And I tried, Sam, but I just … I couldn't. I just had to stand there and watch the light leave your eyes."

Sam's breath hitches and he covers for it by pressing a kiss to the top of Dean's head. "I know how much that sucks."

"Oh yeah. I forgot about that." He falls silent for another few minutes, and then he adds, "You don't know until it happens to you. But pain like that? It … it changes you. All you can do is just grit your teeth and pray for it to stop, but when it doesn't, it's like it knocks things loose inside you."

Sam nods and more tears spill from his eyes. "I'm not gonna let anything like that happen to you ever again, okay? That's a promise."

"I slept with Anna," Dean admits quietly, and that hits Sam at an odd angle because he has no idea where it came from.

"You – when?" he asks, frowning.

"After the angels told her they'd send me back to Hell if we didn't hand her over. You were asleep."

Sam isn't sure how to feel about that. After everything with Ruby, he doesn't feel as if he has any right to question anything Dean does lately. He's not thrilled to hear Dean slept with someone else, but it isn't his place to be upset anymore. Not when everything between them is so messed up and uncertain. Not after everything they've both been through.

"Why?" he asks eventually. It isn't what he meant to say, but it's what comes out.

Dean shrugs. "Because she was there, I guess."

Sam knows that isn't the real reason. With the way Dean's been lately, there's no way he'd fuck some chick just because he was bored and she happened to be the closest female to him at the time. But he doesn't say that. He just nods and presses his lips together. "Was it … because of Ruby? Because I …"

"You think I did it to get back at you?"

Sam doesn't answer again. To be honest, that isn't what he thought, but now that Dean's said it, Sam can't help wondering if that had something to do with it. It would make sense. Dean said he didn't care that Sam slept with Ruby while he was in Hell, but Sam's having a hard time believing Dean lately, after everything they've been keeping from each other. He nudges Dean off him so he can roll onto his side and look into Dean's eyes. Dean looks absolutely miserable, and Sam can't help reaching out and brushing at the wetness on his face. Dean closes his eyes and turns his had into Sam's hand.

Sam doesn't ask again, but Dean tearfully says, "I did it because she knew."

Sam's confused. "What?"

"Anna. She knew what I did in Hell. I don't know how, but she did. And she said I should forgive myself."

"She was right."

"I just … I guess it was nice to be with someone who knew. I didn't have to pretend with her."

Sam blinks back tears suddenly, emotion gripping him tight in the chest. Dean sees it, and mutters again that he's sorry. "No," Sam says, shaking his head. "I'm not mad at you. I just … you wouldn't have had to pretend with me if you'd just _told_ me. I don't understand why you thought you couldn't."

"Because …" Dean's voice catches, and his face twists up and he dissolves into shuddery sobs again for a few seconds before he can continue. Sam quickly pulls him back into his arms, gathering his brother up and cradling him against his chest like Dean used to do with him. "I didn't want you to hate me."

"Why would I hate you?" Sam asks, his own voice shaking. It _hurts_ to see Dean so upset, and it hurts even more to know Dean thought Sam wouldn't understand.

"I do," Dean whispers.

"You do what?"

"Hate me."

Sam closes his eyes for a moment, trying desperately to keep himself from breaking down again. At least one of them needs to keep it together or they'll both shatter.

"Dean, you're looking at this all wrong. You shouldn't blame yourself for breaking. You should be proud of yourself for lasting so long. Do you really think anyone else would have lasted _thirty years_?"

Dean just shrugs pitifully, and Sam has to make him understand.

"Put in the situation you were? Most people would've gotten off the rack after the first day. They wouldn't have even cared, they would've jumped right off and did whatever the demons told them to if it meant not getting tortured anymore. You held out for decades. Can't you see how amazing that is?"

"Don't call it that," Dean mutters harshly. His shoulders are tense and clenched, and Sam wants nothing more than to kiss him until he remembers how to smile. But he knows Dean wouldn't let him. "There is something broken inside me, Sam. Something bad, something that was always there but I just didn't know it. Hell … it showed me that. Showed me that I have darkness inside me. The things I did to all those people … I didn't know I was capable of that kind of … but now I know I am. It wasn't even hard. I tore into them like it was nothing. I can never un-know that."

Suddenly, Sam has a horrible thought. He doesn't even want to ask because he wouldn't know how to react if he's right, but he has to know. "It is … what you did down there? Is that why you won't fuck me?"

Dean inhales sharply and doesn't answer, and that's all it takes for Sam to know he's right.

"Oh God," he breathes. "It is, isn't it? You think you're _bad_ now, you think what you did means there's something evil in you, and you don't wanna hurt me."

Dean doesn't answer again. He shakes his head and turns his face into Sam's neck. Sam feels the tears, hot and wet, dripping down onto his skin, and he tightens his arms around Dean.

"You would never hurt me," he rasps, his voice coming out like his throat's been scrubbed with steel wool.

"I did a lot of things I never thought I'd do," Dean points out sadly.

"That's not the same."

"Why not?"

"Because it isn't. Did you hurt Anna? Or Jamie?" As the words leave Sam's lips, a bunch of things suddenly start to make sense to him. Dean thought if he had Sam underneath him, vulnerable and trusting, he'd snap and go back to the person he was while he was torturing souls. He slept with other people to test the theory. He made up that ridiculous thing about his reestablished virginity as a way around telling Sam what he was really doing. Sam feels so stupid for being jealous, and he _hates_ that Dean felt all that and thought he had to keep it to himself.

"No."

"So?"

"It doesn't matter. I can't risk it."

Sam shakes his head. "You have to. Dean, we have to."

"I can't. What if …"

Sam nudges him back again, so they're on their sides facing each other, and presses his lips against Dean's. He can't let Dean go on thinking he's the kind of person who would ever hurt anyone just for the fun of it. If Dean forgets that he's a good person, he'll never come back from this. Sam slides his lips along Dean's licking his way into Dean's mouth. Dean kisses him back; probably just doesn't have the energy to fight him, and it isn't quite what Sam wants but for now it's enough. He pushes his hand under Dean's shirt, sliding his palm over Dean's bare back and shifting around until he's pressed right up against his brother. Dean tangles his fingers in Sam's hair and swirls his tongue around Sam's like it's a reflex.

"Please," Sam whispers, the words smushed against his brother's mouth.

"Sammy," Dean breathes, his heart clearly not in the protest, and it gives Sam hope.

"Dean, please. You need this. _We_ need this."

Dean shakes his head. "I …"

"I know you," Sam insists. "You would _never_ hurt me. Never. Not like that. You love me, right?"

Dean lets out a shaky, emotion-filled sigh, but then he says, "Yeah. I do."

"Show me." Sam kisses the corner of Dean's mouth. "Dean, when we're together? I feel like … we stop being two separate people. Right here, with you, it's where I'm supposed to be. Where I belong. And I know you feel that too. It's the best thing we have. Don't let Hell take it away from us."

Dean brushes his lips just barely over Sam's and then leaves them there, the air between them warm and moist. His fingers play idly in Sam's hair, and Sam brings his hand up to cup Dean's cheek again, his thumb drawing a gentle arc underneath Dean's wet-rimmed eye.

"Please," he whispers again, and finally Dean nods and whispers back, "Okay."

Sam kisses him again, licking along Dean's bottom lip. Dean kisses back but it feels reluctant, and it hurts Sam's heart. That Dean's scared of this, that he thinks there's even a possibility he'd ever hurt Sam, shatters the foundations of everything their relationship is built on. Everything they are, brothers, friends, partners, everything else, was constructed around how much Dean has always loved Sam. That he takes care of Sam, that he protects him, that he would and did die for him. If Dean doesn't remember that, Sam doesn't know what they have left. If Hell takes this away from them, then that's Sam's fault too, and he wouldn't be able to live with himself. He barely can as it is.

"Dean," he murmurs, cupping Dean's face in his hand and brushing the pad of his thumb through his tears.

"Yeah," Dean mumbles shakily.

Sam kisses the corner of his mouth, in a way he hopes is comforting. "We don't haf'ta do anything tonight. If you need more time …"

"I just don't wanna hurt you," Dean whispers, the shame in his voice overflowing.

"You know you never would. Deep down you know that," Sam tells him. He pushes one of his legs in between Dean's and moves in closer. "I trust you. Show me I'm not wrong."

Dean takes a deep breath and then he kisses Sam. It's still tentative but Sam's not going to let him back out of this. Dean needs it. He lets Dean drive; he will the whole way. Dean needs to do this, needs to be in charge and in control to prove to himself that he can. That what he did in Hell is not who he is – that underneath all the pain and fear and self-loathing, there's still good. Sam knows it's there. Dean is the best person he knows. The fact that he was willing to spend forty years in Hell for Sam proves that. But Dean needs to know it too.

Sam helps him a little; shifting onto his back to encourage Dean to roll on top of him, and Dean does. Dean kisses him a little deeper, sliding his tongue out to brush against Sam's lips, and Sam parts them and draws Dean's tongue into his mouth. He sucks on it and swirls his own around it languidly, pushing his hips up into Dean's so Dean can feel his hardening cock – so he'll know Sam really wants this. Sam _does_ want it, he's been wanting it since the day Dean got back. Not just the sex – although he loves that too, loves the feeling of Dean hovering over him, filling him up, crashing into the spot that makes Sam see stars – but mostly he's been missing the closeness, the feeling of being connected to Dean deeper than he's ever been with anyone. Sam's universe has always revolved around his big brother. He doesn't feel right when there's distance between them.

Dean keeps kissing him, slow, sweet brushes of his lips that betray the sentimental, emotional person he is, deep inside in the places he never wants anyone to see; even Sam, although Sam does see them. Sam slides his hands up and down Dean's back, and his fingers twitch with the urge to push his fingers up under Dean's shirt, but he doesn't. He lets Dean run the show, and eventually Dean starts gently tugging at Sam's shirt. He can't get it off while they're lying down, so Sam sits up, pushing Dean up with him so Dean's sitting in Sam's lap. Dean's eyes are dark and shiny when Sam looks up at him – he looks turned on but he looks worried too, and Sam hates that. He pulls his shirt off over his head and Dean does the same, and then he trails his fingers lightly up Dean's abs and chest. Dean shivers a little, and closes his eyes when Sam gets to the handprint on his shoulder. He traces his fingers over it, and then he leans forward and kisses it.

"Offer still stands, y'know," Dean says softly.

Sam frowns up at him.

"To put a scar on me that's yours."

Tears burn in Sam's eyes again, horrible thoughts of how little Dean cares about himself rolling around in his brain, and he shakes his head. He moves closer again, kissing the tattoo above Dean's heart this time and murmuring, "This one's mine. Like you said."

When he looks up again, Dean is watching him with an unreadable look on his face. Sam wants to ask, but he doesn't, and then Dean says, "You sure about this?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Dean shakes his head and looks away, his posture slumping just a little, but Sam's not going to let him off the hook this time. He slides his hands up Dean's chest again until he can cup them around the back of Dean's neck and pull him down for another kiss. Dean's hands settle on Sam's back, his nails scratching gently along Sam's skin.

"I mean it," Sam says. "Tell me. Why would you think I don't want this?"

"I don't know," Dean mumbles.

"Do you believe I love you?"

Dean just shrugs and drops his gaze. Sam takes that to mean Dean _does_ believe Sam loves him, but wishes Sam didn't because he doesn't think he's worthy of it. Sam should be numb to how much things like that hurt by now, but he isn't. He doesn't think he ever will be.

Sam lies down again, pulling Dean with him. He keeps one hand cupped around the back of Dean's skull and he slides the other all the way down Dean's spine and into the back of his jeans, squeezing his ass and pushing his hips down so they press into Sam's.

"I've wanted you since I was a teenager," Sam tells him, pressing kisses to Dean's lips as he does. "Probably since even before that, I just didn't understand it yet. There is nothing, _nothing_, that could ever happen to make me stop wanting you. At least tell me you believe that, even if you think you don't deserve it right now."

Dean shakes his head, his lips brushing against Sam's, but it isn't a _no_. It just means he can't. Can't say what he wants to, can't even think about it because it hurts too much. And Sam can't anymore either. Can't stand to see Dean like this, to feel like there's a pair of scissors attempting to cut their way of out his chest. He kisses Dean, deep and quick and rough, and Dean makes this small, whimpery sound and kisses Sam back. Sam's head spins as it quickens, Dean's lips on his and Dean's body, warm and familiar, against him. Sam forgets about letting Dean lead and shoves his hands between them to fumble with the button and zipper on Dean's jeans, and Dean pushes himself up to his knees and lets Sam push his pants halfway off. He climbs off Sam to get them off the rest of the way, and Sam wiggles out of his own jeans while Dean gets the lube from his bag.

When Dean comes back to the bed Sam doesn't let him hesitate. He pulls Dean back in, wrapping his arms around his brother's back and kissing him as they tumble together to the mattress. It worries Sam a little that he doesn't know where Dean's head is – doesn't know what happened to make him change his mind – but he'll deal with that later. For now, he just kisses Dean and runs his hands everywhere on Dean's body he can reach and pushes his hips up into Dean's so their bare cocks rub together. Delicious sparks erupt under Sam's skin and he hums happily. He really, really missed this.

Eventually, Dean breaks the kiss long enough to get back up on his knees, settling between Sam's spread legs, and popping the cap on the lube. His hands shake, fumbling with the small tube, so Sam sits up again and takes it from him. Dean exhales shakily and drops his hands down to brace on his own thighs, his head falling forward a little. Sam hitches his legs up, bracketing Dean's body with his knees, and tucks a finger under Dean's chin so Dean will look at him.

"Hey," Sam murmurs, pressing a long kiss to the corner of Dean's mouth. "It's okay."

Dean nods, bringing one hand up to run the pad of his thumb over the tattoo on Sam's chest.

"S'okay, big brother," Sam repeats, resting his face against Dean's so the air between their lips is moist as it bounces between them. "M'right here."

"I know," Dean whispers. He doesn't look ashamed of needing Sam anymore, he just looks upset and exhausted, and even though that isn't exactly a good thing, Sam thinks maybe it's progress. He kisses Dean again, picking up Dean's right hand so he can squeeze some clear over his fingers. He spreads it on three of them, kissing Dean gently while he does. Then he lies back down, propping himself up on his elbows and spreading himself out for Dean, making himself as open and vulnerable as he can to show Dean how much he trusts him.

Dean nods again, the look on his face still apprehensive, but he leans down and licks at the head of Sam's cock as he moves his hand down and presses the pad of his index finger against Sam's hole. Sam moans to spur Dean on, and Dean takes the hint and pushes his finger into Sam's body as he sucks Sam's cock into his mouth. This time, the moan that escapes Sam's lips is completely beyond his control. It's been _way_ too long – Sam's lost count, seven months? Eight? – since they've done this, and _fuck_, Sam missed it. The things Dean can make him feel are way too good to ever go that long without it.

Dean opens him up slowly, thick fingers sliding into him, stretching him open, rubbing against the spots inside that make Sam shiver in pleasure. He knows every spot, how to touch it, when to twist, when to push back in with more. It makes Sam dizzy. When Sam promises he's ready, Dean pulls his fingers away and returns a moment later with his slicked-up cock sliding into Sam's body. It stings because it's been too long, but Sam does his best to relax and let Dean in. Dean leans down, bracing his hands on either side of Sam's head, and kisses him. He presses Sam into the mattress and fucks him, slowly at first and then quicker as it builds. Sam clings to him, not letting their bodies separate more than the few inches necessary for Dean to rock into him, and kisses his brother until he can't breathe and even then he doesn't stop. He needs Dean to feel him the whole time, to know it's Sam beneath him; to know Sam's there. To know he isn't alone.

"So good," Sam tells him in a breathy whisper, a harsh groan tearing from his lips as Dean's cock nails his prostate. His whole body lights up in pleasure, but somehow it's more than that this time. It's about more than hands and skin and sweat. It's about reclaiming a piece of _them_ Sam was so scared they'd lost. Words couldn't express how happy he is to have it back. He moans louder than he normally would and bucks up against his brother to chase more of the feeling.

"Me too," Dean grunts. He lifts his head up just enough to see Sam's eyes, like he's searching for just a bit more proof Sam's telling the truth.

"Touch me," Sam pleads, and Dean nods and pushes a hand between them to wrap around Sam's leaking cock and stroke it in time with his thrusts.

Sam barely lasts a dozen passes of Dean's talented hand before he comes, the orgasm hitting him like a punch and sending pleasure through his veins like lightening. It's a struggle, but he keeps his eyes open and locked on Dean's as his back arches and his cock explodes over Dean's fingers. Dean strokes him gently through it, slowing the movements of his hips until Sam stops shaking and the intense pleasure mellows out to warm, exquisite bliss. When Sam can move again, he rocks his hips again to encourage his brother to move. Dean leans down and kisses him while he picks up the pace again, thrusting into Sam for another minute or two before he comes too, filling Sam up inside and then falling down on top of him.

He's clingier than normal when it's over – although Sam supposes _normal_ went out the window for them a long time ago – curling up against Sam's chest and pushing his face into the crook of Sam's neck. Sam doesn't care. After what Dean's been through, he can be as clingy as he damn wants. Emotions are still too close to the surface for both of them, and Sam wraps Dean up in his arms while their racing hearts slow down. After a while he gets cold, so he lets go of Dean long enough to wrestle the blankets up over them, and as soon as they're covered he pulls Dean back into his arms. Dean doesn't say anything but he lies against Sam's chest and lets Sam hold him. He doesn't say anything, so Sam doesn't either. He figures words wouldn't mean much right now anyway.

Dean brings his hand up to rest over Sam's heart, his fingers absently tracing the tattoo they share, and Sam rests his mouth against Dean's forehead and closes his eyes. Tonight didn't fix them. They're both still broken pieces of who they used to be, and tonight won't glue them back together. But it's a start.

Two brief, fragmented thoughts float through Sam's tired mind before he drifts off to sleep. One is that he loves Dean, and is never letting him go again. The other is that, even though the whole thing is Sam's fault, Lilith is the one who took Dean away. The one who is really responsible for everything that happened to Dean in Hell. So Lilith has to die. The man in Sam's arms is his everything – the man who has loved Sam every say since he was born, taken care of him, saved him over and over again. The man who spent forty years in Hell to keep Sam alive. Sam can't ever repay Dean for what he's done, but he can kill Lilith. Sam owes him at least that much.


End file.
